It began with small things.
Zyrán stopped waiting for Hael to speak first.
He would rise from bed without warning, drift into the colder rooms of the house where the light thinned and the air seemed to remember too much. He lingered near open windows long after the wind had turned sharp, let the rain dampen his sleeves, his hair, his skin—small acts of neglect disguised as indifference.
Hael noticed everything.
He said little.
At first, he merely followed at a distance, a presence felt more than seen. When Zyrán leaned too far out the window, Hael closed it quietly. When Zyrán skipped meals, Hael left food within reach, untouched by insistence. When Zyrán did not sleep, Hael stayed awake.
Always stayed.
The constancy unsettled Zyrán more than absence ever had.
One evening, he left the house without telling him.
The city swallowed sound the way grief swallowed prayer. Streetlamps bled amber into puddles, and Zyrán walked with his hands in his pockets, head bare beneath a sky that threatened rain. He did not run. He did not hide. He simply went where he knew Hael would follow.
And he did.
Hael appeared at the corner before Zyrán reached the end of the street, his coat dark against the glow, his expression carefully blank.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," Hael said.
Zyrán turned, eyes bright with something reckless. "Why? Afraid I'll disappear?"
Hael's jaw tightened. "Yes."
The honesty struck harder than anger.
Zyrán stepped backward—just one step—toward the curb, toward the slick edge of the street where cars hissed past like restless thoughts.
"Is that all I am to you?" he asked softly. "Something you're afraid to lose?"
Hael closed the distance in two strides, his hand catching Zyrán's wrist—not hard, but certain.
"Don't," he said. Not a command. A plea.
Zyrán looked down at their joined hands. "You always say that," he murmured. "But you never tell me what happens if I do."
Hael's grip loosened. His voice lowered. "Then I break."
Zyrán laughed under his breath, sharp and disbelieving. "Angels don't break."
"I am not speaking as an angel," Hael said. "I am speaking as the one who stayed."
The words landed between them, heavy and unguarded.
Zyrán pulled his hand free—not violently, but deliberately—and stepped closer instead. Too close. Close enough that Hael had to tilt his head to meet his gaze.
"Then stay," Zyrán said. "Stay even when I make it hard."
Hael did not move. His breath slowed. Something ancient shifted behind his eyes—not rage, not power, but restraint stretched thin as wire.
"You are testing me," Hael said.
Zyrán nodded. "Because I need to know where the edge is."
"And if there is none?"
Zyrán hesitated. Then, quietly: "Then I need to know you won't vanish when I touch it."
For a long moment, the street seemed to hold its breath.
Hael lifted his hand—not to restrain, not to pull away—but to cup the side of Zyrán's face. His thumb brushed beneath Zyrán's eye, where tears had once gathered.
"I won't leave," Hael said. "But you must not mistake my protection for permission to destroy yourself."
Zyrán leaned into the touch despite himself.
"That's the problem," he whispered. "I don't know where one ends and the other begins."
Hael closed his eyes.
Neither did he.
Above them, clouds gathered—not with thunder, but with waiting. And far away, beyond the thin places of the world, something dark felt the tension pull tight.
A thread stretched too far always sings before it snaps.
And Samael was listening.